For the second year running, Alan and I rang in the new year at the state lodge in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia.
Just because you’re probably expecting it, I’m not going to make any jokes about Deliverance. (I think I’m maturing: this trip I didn’t even harass Alan with remarks like, “You sure have a pretty mouth” when he’d leave me to go to the bathroom.)
But I will share a snippet from the drive on Saturday when, utterly hungover from New Year’s Eve, Alan and braved the curvy backroads to find a bar called “Hillbilly Heaven” where people assured us we would be able to watch the bowl games.
“Hillbilly Heaven. Any chance that’s what they tell all the city folks just to set us up if we have to stop and ask for directions?” I continued, “I mean, can you imagine pulling over and asking someone where Hillbilly Heaven is? Sounds kind of insulting.”
“The way this road is going, I’m wondering if they’re sending us to Hillbilly Hell,” Alan offered.
“Hmmm… Hillbilly Hell? So that would be all yuppie-like, where you definitely couldn’t find Pabst Blue Ribbon and where you’d actually need teeth to eat the food, right?”
Definitely going to hell of some sort for that one. Hillbilly or otherwise.
pithypants 
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